


Two Months

by indaco



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Self-Care, CLickBait IN THE TAGS, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Shakespeare Shit...yet again, Hair Washing, Horatio backstory? Open for more info, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, character exploration, how to tag?, in the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indaco/pseuds/indaco
Summary: Horatio’s mother used to warn him about loving someone like this. His heart is too tender for his own good.





	Two Months

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this while washing my hair in my friends sink at her birthday party. Which was in June. Amazing job, me. 
> 
> This is mostly me trying to figure out how to characterize Horatio. 
> 
> Like, comment, and subscribe for more Fortnite tips.

“Two months.”

Hamlet glares at him, a challenging look simmering beneath his exhaustion, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That I haven’t heard from you in two months is all,” Horatio lays out his pajamas slowly, calmly.

He almost feels petty bringing it up now, _almost._

“I don’t know if you can tell, but I’ve got a lot going on.”

Horatio stops unpacking for a moment, closing his eyes.

_I called you every day after my mom died, Hamlet._

The ghost- Hamlet’s father, rather- stalks behind Horatio’s eyelids. His strained voice echoes in his ears, begging for vengeance his son cannot- _should not_ \- have to carry out. He tastes the death-cold metal of his armor. The smell lingers in Horatio’s nose, sticking to his hair and clothing. The rot, the dirt, the fear- you can smell it on the both of them. The blood, the bile-soaked with poison, his swollen ear-

He opens his eyes again, fixing Hamlet with a neutral stare. Eyes shining.

“I know you are.”

Hamlet’s expression falters, voice cracking, “Then why are even you bringing this up?”

Horatio lowers himself onto the bed, sitting beside his friend, “Because I’m worried for you.”

No response.

With how close they’re sitting- he can tell that Hamlet is shivering, and he’s trembling alongside him. Hamlet’s head drops to Horatio’s shoulder. Both of them can’t be scared. It can’t be both.

His voice comes from a strange part of his throat, like it’s sore from screaming, a luxury he has yet to receive since arriving in Denmark, “We can put a pin in it.”

Hamlet doesn’t respond in voice or movement.

Horatio doesn’t blink for too long. The ghost awaits somewhere, hanging precariously on his eyelashes, and he won’t indulge it. Seldom can he give way to running thought, to abstract introspection. His mind has dissolved. It’s is all images, the words chasing them follow as feelings, nonsensical phrases, fears even-

_It’s dripping from the sword. Is it water? Is it a serpent? He arrived too late. He’s too late. There’s blood, not as rubies, not as fire, not as paint, or rose-petal colored- it is just red. And sticky. Too slick blood- too sweet blood- dripping from his mouth. Coughing in his face, splattering on his brow. It’ll never wash out, will it? He’s choking on it. He cannot breathe, he cannot breathe- why is no one helping? Is he dying? The ghost. The ghost, the ghost, the blood, the rot, the blood, the ghost-_

_Hamlet._

_Why didn’t Hamlet just call me sooner?_

He presses his cheek to the top of Hamlet’s head, breathing in deeply.

He hesitates, his eyebrows scrunching.

Horatio brings a hand up and the prince’s head.

“Your hair.”

“Oh,” He wriggles, “I haven’t cut it in a while-”

“No- well- it does look nice, I like it long,” Horatio says, palming his scalp, “It’s just that it’s greasy. _Really_ greasy-”

Hamlet tenses.

He keeps his tone as nonaccusatory as possible, “Have you been showering?”

“I’ve been taking baths,” Hamlet murmurs, “Standing up in a shower is…”

“Tiring.” Horatio supplies, “I get it.”

Hamlet scoots away from him. Horatio’s supposed to be unpacking. He almost smacks himself- Hamlet’s parents- his mother- are here. This isn’t their apartment.

He rises, picking up a pair of jeans in his hands. Opening the bottom drawer of the oakwood dresser, he is greeted with myriads of black fabric. Dark shirts, sweaters, pants-

Horatio nearly smacks himself. This isn’t a guest room.

“You can stay here tonight.” Hamlet says softly, curled up in his bed, “And tomorrow night, if you’d like”

He huffs out an empty laugh, “Forever, preferably.”

“Is that a promise?”

_Hope so._

Horatio finishes unpacking. He picks up his now empty luggage and carries it across the room. Across Hamlet's bedroom lies his bathroom. The door is open a jar, golden light jutting into the dark bedroom. Its ambiance soaks the hardwood floors and king size bed in a yellow glow.

Horatio is greeted by a sink, ornate, but stylistically simplistic. He’s struck with an idea.

“Hamlet,” He speaks, not looking from the door, “Could I do you a favor?”

***

He gathers what he needs- expensive shampoo from the prince’s shower, an even more expensive towel, one of Hamlet’s Wittenberg t-shirts, (which Horatio has a sneaking suspicion used to be his), he passes over conditioner, realizing he would be pushing his luck if he attempted to include that in this ordeal.

Back in the bathroom, Hamlet lays draped across the sink counter, bangs falling into his face, head resting in his folded arms. He huffs.

“Are you good?” Horatio asks.

“This is humiliating.”

“Drama queen.”

His eyes, still accented by dollar store pencil liner, shoot daggers.

“I am _not_ dramatic,” Hamlet insists, “And this is humiliating. Completely and utterly. Rock. Bottom.”

“I’ve seen you naked. I’ve seen you add mixed-number fractions,” Horatio replies, setting the items on the counter beside him, “There’s no need to be embarrassed around me.”

The prince responds by burying his face in the folds of his arms.

Horatio switches tactics.

Lowering himself, he bends over to rest his head against the sink counter. He mirrors the prince. In any other situation, he’d giggle, begging Hamlet to follow in the gesture. Instead, he stays stark serious, fingers tapping on the tile to let the other know he’s there.

He braces himself before starting.

“You know how I lived in something like nine different places before I turned eighteen?”

Hamlet nods a begrudging nod.

Horatio nods back, continuing, “Well, one time, when I was about six, my mom lost her first job. Budget cuts or something, but we didn’t really have a savings or anything, and my aunt hadn’t moved back to our town yet so...we had to leave our apartment. We ended up renting a room in a three bedroom house with about eight other people. It was decent sized, though, we could fit a microwave and mini fridge in it- and we even got the bathroom that connected to it, too.

“I can barely remember what it was actually like to live there. I mean, it smelled weird. I was too shy to enjoy being around that many people, I figure. It would get really loud at night sometimes. When I would get home from school, she’d tell me to lock the door and not let anybody in. I think I was too young to know how...scary that was.”

Horatio sees Hamlet look up at him out of the corner of his eye.

Always up for a story.

Pretending not to notice, he keeps talking.

“I’m not complaining, though, we weren’t homeless or depraved...or anything. It only took her, what, five months to save up enough to get us back into a one bedroom apartment? But, anyways, the thing was: the bathroom didn’t have a shower or a bath. My mother wasn’t keen on having me share a bathroom with strange adults- couldn’t imagine why- so we’d was up in the standing sink. She’d actually wash my hair just like this, over the sink, every-other night.”

Hamlet’s face crumples into sympathy, “That must’ve been awful.”

Horatio shakes his head, “I would look forward to it. She had to work a lot, and I spent most of my time home alone. When she’d get home from work, she would be so tired that we’d go right to bed. On bath nights, I could talk to her for longer, spend more time with her. She’d usually be more awake by the time we would finish, so we would always end up staying up just a little bit later. We’d have more time to read together, or even watch TV. Some of my fondest memories were from after she’d wash my hair.”

The prince doesn’t say a thing, which is uncomfortably out of character. Anecdotes like these are a novelty to him; he can revel in empathy, sipping on the dregs of depravity without ever fully drinking the pain of experiencing it first hand.

There’s also the rarity of them. Horatio isn’t the type to just pass the lump in his throat to onto another. That’s Hamlet’s gig.

_It shouldn’t be this easy to open up to someone like that._

Hamlet clears his throat, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-”

He holds up his hand, “I don’t think you get what I’m trying to say.”

He closes his mouth. Horatio fixes him with a tender look.

“I’m not doing this for you because I pity you, or am disgusted by you, this is something you do for someone you care about a great deal. You’re struggling and I want to help you,” He runs his hands through his companion’s hair, “Believe it or not, I like you quite a bit. Despite the fact that you’re making me grey in my twenties.”

A small smile betrays him, “Washing my hair isn’t going to fix this, you know.”

“It’ll fix something,” Horatio gently insists, “And you’ll feel better afterward, I promise.”

Hamlet contemplates over nothing.

He sighs, gesturing vaguely, “Wash away.”

The faucet turns on. It’s mid-November, the pipes of the centuries-old castle lament their awakening on an uncomfortable, screeching sigh. The water spits out is unsteadily, but it’s soothing and warm; Hamlet relaxes into the spray, posture unwinding. Horatio considers it a victory.

“Heads up- or, er- don’t do that,” Horatio says, pushing Hamlet’s head beneath the faucet, “Close your eyes.”

“They are,” He replies, voice lighter, “Are you trying to drown me?”

Taking the lavender shampoo into his hands, he rakes his fingers through the prince’s hair, gently scratching his scalp. Hamlet leans into the feeling, and Horatio wonders if he’s read any of the articles he sent him a couple months ago about touch starvation.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve found a better way than this,” He matches his tone.

“Comforting,” Hamlet says, “Imagine the headline-”

He cuts himself off, choking on soapy water,

“Shut your mouth," Horatio laughs. "I know it must be torture for you, but, God-'

He ignores him, “‘Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark: Killed By His Jealous Lover In His _Own_ Bathroom Sink, Worst Crime Of Passion. Just The Worst.”

“Jealous?” He asks, rinsing out the last of the suds, “Who said I was jealous?”

“CNN." Hamlet says simply, "I hope they’re the first to find out I’ve died.”

Horatio sobers up minutely, “Don’t say that.”

“Done.”

The faucet is turned off with a finality.

Horatio is aware that his hands are still tangled in the prince’s hair, and that there’s no real need for them to remain there. There’s this irrational part of him that’s afraid that if he loses contact with him, even for a moment, Hamlet would drip down the drain, spiraling with the whirlpool of water.

He’s missed his friend more than he’s letting on.

It’s Hamlet who breaks the contact, sliding down to sit on the mat by the sink. Horatio drops an expensive towel into the prince’s arms and takes a seat beside him, a subconscious hand moves to the nape of Hamlet’s neck, rubbing tender circles right below his hairline. He melts into the palm of Horatio’s hand.

Horatio’s voice is so soft it edges on a coo, “Have you been sleeping?”

He shakes his head. Horatio’s fingers stop, nearly without notice, before starting again.

“Okay.”

“Don’t say it.”

“I’m not saying anything,” His fingers still work in their circles, “I get it.”

No reply. Horatio’s hand moves down from the back of Hamlet’s neck, his arm snaking around his waist, tucking him to his side. They both look foolish there, sitting on the floor, leaning against the sink. Sudsy water soaks both of their shirts and Hamlet’s still-damp hair sticks up funny in places. Horatio stares at him with too-soft eyes.

The prince’s eyebrows knit together, “What?”

Horatio hesitates before pressing a kiss to his temple. Hamlet leans into it. 

“‘S nothing, Hamlet,” He mummers, lips still pressed to his hair, “Do you want me to stay in your room tonight? I always sleep better when you’re with me.”

Horatio is urging more than asking.

“You must’ve had a lot of trouble sleeping, then” A ghost of a smile dances on the prince’s lips, but the shadows in his eyes chase it away, “I’m sorry for just...ignoring you like that.”

_Two fucking months? I thought- I don't even know what I-_

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Horatio feels a weight against his shoulder, heavy and damp, “Let’s just- do you want to bed?”

Definitely urging.

Hamlet sighs.

“I don’t want to sleep, Horatio.”

_Right. Insomnia. Mania. Nightmares._

It’s really how their... thing started. They shared a dorm, and soon enough, they shared a bed. It wasn’t anything but a friendly gesture, sleeping beside each other. The presence of another human being helped the prince sleep, finding something about Horatio soothing. Maybe the scholar benefited from it, too; platonic closeness soothes his own anxious disposition.

It wasn’t platonic at all, though. If it had started that way, surely they’d grown past that.

Or maybe it still was.

_It’s not like we’ve talked about it._

Regardless, Hamlet doesn’t sleep well by himself. He’ll drift off if alone for too long, Horatio knows this better than anyone else. Eyes closed, he can see him; pajama-clad, shaking, raging at nothing, completely alone. It’s so cold and empty at Elsinore, especially at night, especially in the winter. He’s scrambling to think of any companionship the prince could’ve found; his father is dead, his mother just married to his uncle, Laertes is going away- _Where’s Ophelia?_

The thought creeps up his spine, sending pinpricks of dread up and down his arms.

 _Hamlet has only had himself._ His head hits the cabinet doors, _He’s been dealing with this bullshit by himself._

It makes Horatio sick. He rolls his head on top of Hamlet’s, cheek pressed to his hair.

“We don’t have to sleep,” His smile is uncomfortably wide, tone unrealistically peppy, “We could find a bad documentary on Netflix, or find worse poetry online- didn’t you start a dissertation on Dante’s _Inferno?_ I want to hear all about it.”

Hamlet chuckles. The sound is almost startling, but not unfamiliar. It’s sweet to Horatio’s ears.

“You hate _The Divine Comedy,”_ He’s grinning up at him now, eyes bloodshot, but there’s a hidden giddiness in his look.

“But you like it,” He returns the gesture more genuinely, relief dancing somewhere within his smile, “And I like you.”

“Do you now?”

Horatio presses their foreheads together with a breathy laugh, “Well, don’t tell anyone, but-”

Hamlet closes the distance, pressing their lips together. The kiss isn’t desperate- but slow- and soft, almost unbelievably so. Princely callous so seldom gives way to such softness.

Hamlet thinks so, too, in his hesitancy.

It’s a sensation Horatio has grown familiar with by now, kissing Hamlet, but it still makes something in his chest thrum. It’s almost disarming how easily being around the prince can change his mood, or how his presence can change the prince’s. He presses a hand to Hamlet’s cheek, dizzy.

_I missed you, I missed you, I missed you. Thank God you’re okay- I missed you._

Horatio’s mother used to warn him about loving someone like this. His heart is too tender for his own good.

Hamlet breaks the contact, looking more like himself than he has since Horatio arrived here. It’s wonderful. Horatio is glad to bask in the glow of it. The prince rubs a tender thumb up and down Horatio’s forearm, resting his head on his companion’s shoulder.

 _Thank you._ The gesture says.

“I do like you.” Horatio’s reiterates, voice cracking, “Quite a bit, actually.”

Maybe everything would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Projecting my own distaste for Dante's Inferno onto Horatio. 
> 
> idk.
> 
> follow @radraconteur on tumblr.


End file.
